


something old;

by orphan_account



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Gen, azran legacies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 12:28:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[[AZRAN LEGACY SPOILERS]]</p><p>Desmond Sycamore wakes up the day after Targent paid his family one last visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	something old;

Often his darkest days will rise with the sun.

On this particular spring morning, he wakes up tangled in hastily applied blankets, muscles aching from hours of endless tossing and turning. His hands are stiff, the joints crusted with tight, rusty layers of flaky brown substance, and his cheeks feel raw and burnt from the tracks of despairing tears. It feels like someone’s torn out his heart, but done it with care so he doesn’t really notice when it’s gone. But it is; it’s gone, and it’s not coming back.

The blood isn’t his. He doesn’t have to remember, because he never forgot. The images have sat heavily in his head, festering and curdling as he slept, and now it’s a silent, unbirthed scream that he can feel brewing in the base of his throat.

Desmond sits up. The bodies, of course, are gone; Targent wouldn’t be so irresponsible so as to leave them behind. The police would surely double their efforts to bring the organisation down if they ever had significant evidence that the shadowy group were killing the innocent families of equally innocent archaeologists.

The day outside continues as any other would. Voices float through the window as people begin to go about their business, and Desmond is all but numb to what they are saying and what they are doing and where they are going. The life that he still has thuds relentlessly in his chest, and the lives that he has lost draw across his mind like blood trails. There are no such trails on his floor, however; Bronev’s men must have cleaned them up. It would bring a smile to Desmond’s lips, the idea of the hardened agents scrubbing at his floors like housemaids, but he isn’t exactly in the correct state of mind to welcome any form of humour, especially when it concerns the premature mortalities of his wife and daughter.

He hates that they’re living so normally. He hates that they don’t know what he feels.

(Because he’s lost, he’s so lost, and he’s jealous of how mundane their lives are.)

A hand darts to the side, and his fingers curl around the chunky rim of his glasses, lifting them in an unsteady grip to his face, where he applies them, blinking wearily. It’s almost as if he believes that the gain of perfect sight will take away the distinct metallic scent that lingers in the air, the smell of knives and bullets as much as it is the smell of blood. But it subtracts nothing from his situation; if anything, the emptiness of the cleared room that is now clear within his vision makes things worse.

Sycamore’s heart sinks, hanging heavy somewhere low in his gut. He’s alone, now, and this house will never be the same without their smiles to brighten his days. This house will never be the same without the smell of her cooking and the sound of her laughs and the pleasant, inane conversations they would share at the table and he vows to never even forget a single one.

A car rumbles past. Desmond stands on shaky legs, his hands tightening on his lapels as he pulls himself to his feet. It takes all of his effort to not fall right back down again; he feels sick and his head is swimming and he’s lost, it’s over-

Targent will be back. He wholly doubts that they would give up so easily. They’ll leave him to dwell on his ‘mistakes’ and they’ll return, soon, when he’s at his most broken. But what’s the point of giving in if he’s only got his own life to live for? Sure, he has his research, but that will be stolen from him the moment he joins them. He’ll be an empty shell, a ghost - more so than he is now - and they’ll use him until he can be used no more. He can imagine it; their frightened, emptied victims, trying to steal back the last scrap of knowledge they have for themselves.

They can’t, though. They can’t and they won’t - no one steals from Targent.


End file.
